Simul Justus et Peccator
by RPGgirl514
Summary: One-shots and missing scenes that follow Dean Winchester's faith journey throughout the series. Mostly canon-compliant. ON HIATUS.
1. The New Testament: Mark 9

_A/N: This is a missing scene from 02x13, "Houses of the Holy." It takes place just after the car chase in which the man was impaled, before Dean returns to the motel at the end of the episode. In my headcanon this episode was a turning point for Dean in his faith. For those who are curious, the title is Latin for "at the same time both righteous and a sinner."_

* * *

Dean got out of the Impala, still reeling from what had just happened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the truck driver getting out as well. As he approached the Ford, he vaguely heard the truck driver talking on his cell phone – he had called 911, from the sound of it. Glass crunched under Dean's boots as he came to stand by the driver's side window to fully take in the grisly scene. The would-be rapist had been impaled by the rod from the truck. He was dead before he even knew what had happened.

Dean Winchester had seen quite a few gruesome deaths in his lifetime – an occupational hazard of being a hunter. This one, though – this one shook him to the core. Sirens in the distance brought him back to reality. Soon the scene would be crawling with paramedics and cops and each one of them would want him to give his statement. Or worse – one of them would recognize him as the bank robber from Milwaukee.

Tires squealed as Dean left, the truck driver yelling in protest after him. He drove aimlessly, not quite ready to go back to the motel and meet Sam with his smug _I told you so_ face. The hour was late, and much of the city was already dark. A town like Providence didn't have much of a nightlife, Dean supposed.

He rolled to a stop and parked, realizing with a start he was in front of Our Lady of the Angels church. It was almost as if he was meant to end up there. Dean pulled his leather jacket tighter around him – the nights got cold here in January. He was a little surprised to find the enormous front doors unlocked, but went inside nonetheless.

The altar was alight with candles in red jars, and a broad figure was seated in the very front pew. Dean's boots echoed heavily in the silent sanctuary. Neither he nor Father Reynolds spoke when he sat down beside the priest.

"Father, I –" Dean's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. His hands balled up inside the pockets of his coat. He chuckled nervously. "I've never done this before."

Father Reynolds gave him an encouraging nod.

"I've never believed in God," he blurted out, then looked around as though afraid God himself was listening in, waiting to smite him for his unbelief. "I don't think I even know how. I mean, my mom did. Sam does. But it comes so naturally to people like them, you know? I don't – I'm not –"

"You don't think you deserve to be saved," said Father Reynolds quietly.

Dean shrugged.

"Dean," said Father Reynolds, "I am a man of the faith. I have witnessed miracles. I have seen sinners of the worst magnitude come to know God. But tonight I saw something I would never have believed had I not seen it with my own two eyes. It is the struggle of all who believe; indeed, it is what faith is. But the Lord will help you if you ask for it."

Dean began shaking his head. "Father, I don't know if I'm ready –"

"The Lord will meet you wherever you are, Dean," he said gently, laying a hand on Dean's sleeve.

Dean was quiet for a little longer, studying the dancing candle flames on the altar.

"What happened, son?"

It came out in a flood of words, Dean's chest tight as he told Father Reynolds what he had witnessed. "It was God's will," he finished. "I could feel it." He let out the breath he had been holding. "Is that even a thing, like, is that possible? I could feel – I don't know. Something. A higher power. It was like God was there, in that moment."

"Everything is possible for one who believes," said the priest. He took his hand from Dean's jacket and stood up, approaching the altar. He took a thick, leather-bound book from under the altar and opened it to the front cover, then took a pen out of his pocket and began to write. Dean merely watched him, unsure whether he had been dismissed or not.

Father Reynolds closed the book, then stepped down from the altar and held it out. Dean glanced at it, then back up at the priest.

He shook his head. "Father, I don't –" He laughed. "I don't need a Bible."

Father Reynolds shook the book at him. "Just take it," he said, and Dean knew better than to argue. He held it in his hands, the weight of it surprising him. It was heavier than it looked. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat, snug up next to his flask of whiskey. The irony made him smirk.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Father Reynolds, sitting down next to him again. "You might find Mark, chapter nine particularly interesting."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay." He stood up. "Well, uh, thanks for everything, Father. I should be getting back, see how my brother is holding up."

Father Reynolds nodded. "Go in peace. I hope we shall meet again."

Dean frowned slightly, unsure how to respond, so he just nodded. The echo of his footfalls followed him out of the church. He drove back to the motel, the Bible a comforting weight against his chest under his coat. He put the Impala in park and brought it out, running his fingers over the leather cover, so like the texture of his jacket. Leather had always made him feel safe, somehow. He opened it to the priest's message:

_Dean –  
__I see in you a righteous man.  
__Never forget that angels are watching over you._

_Your brother in Christ,  
__Father Patrick Reynolds  
__Our Lady of the Angels  
__Providence, RI_

Dean smiled faintly and scanned the table of contents. Using a slice of light from the motel parking lot lights, he quickly read through Mark, chapter nine. It was not difficult to understand why Father Reynolds had recommended this chapter. Jesus pulling a Gandalf, his clothes becoming a dazzling white? Banishing an evil spirit through prayer? And of course, the possessed boy's father, saying "I do believe, help me in my unbelief!" Salt and fire as cleansing agents? It was as if the chapter was written for a questioning hunter. Maybe Father Reynolds knew more about the life than he let on. Jesus was a badass, that much was clear.

Dean shut the book and tucked it back into his jacket before going inside. This was personal. No need for Sam to see it.


	2. The New Testament: John 11

**A/N: This scene takes place during 02x22, "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 2," before Dean makes his crossroads deal.**

In the months that followed, Dean kept the Bible that Father Reynolds had given him close by but gave it little thought. It spent most of its time nestled in his jacket pocket or the glove compartment of the Impala, though the latter was always a gamble that Sam might find it. Dean wasn't ready to answer the questions Sam would inevitably have about it. Once in a while Dean took it out to flip idly through it or reread the inscription for the thousandth time, but otherwise he treated it much like he did the other areas of his life. Faith was the domain of normal people, who could afford the luxury of stable home lives, lasting relationships, and career choices that didn't involve demons and monsters trying to kill you. These were the things other people deserved, but Dean was denied. He told himself it was the nature of the job.

_But that's just an excuse,_ said a nagging voice in the back of his mind. _You could have all those things and more, Dean, but you chose this instead. The devil you know . . ._

Besides, it wasn't like he had never read the Bible. Dean was a hunter; research was a part of the job. It was a part that Dean hated and if at all possible, relegated to Sam, but he had still done his fair share of reading. He knew the stories. The plagues in Egypt. Daniel in the lions' den. Noah's ark. More relevant were the prophecies of Isaiah and Revelation, but those were speculative at best. Most hunters were men of action: exorcise the demon and send it screaming back to Hell. Take care of the problem at hand. A job well done. Hunters like Sam, big-picture people, those were a rarity. Hunters like his little brother wanted to stop the problem at its source, which was far more trouble than hunters like Dean thought it was worth. Why go looking for trouble when enough trouble found them as it was?

And find them, it had.

Bobby came and went as he pleased from the abandoned little shack, bringing back food that Dean didn't eat. Dean barely heard him leave. To tell the truth, Bobby had never seen him such a wreck before – not even after John had died. He held a constant vigil for his dead brother, who lay still and ashen grey on the naked mattress. Dean fell asleep in the wooden chair by his bedside, waking in fits and starts. If Bobby noticed the leather-bound book he clung to like a lifeline, he didn't mention it.

Finally, Bobby had to say something. It had been two days. Hunters knew better than anyone the timeline of death, and it could only go sideways on them if they held out any longer burning Sam's body. But Dean wasn't having any of it, and he lashed out at Bobby. Told him to leave. So Bobby did.

Dean started awake to waning daylight filtering in through the dirty windows of the shack, blinking around. Bobby was still gone. Dean checked his watch. Just before eight o'clock. Dean inhaled deeply and rubbed his face. His clothes felt grimy, but he hardly cared. How could he eat, sleep, bathe – not when Sam could never do any of those things again?

Dean let the book in his hands fall open as it would, more for something to do than anything else. He stared at the page, unseeing, uncomprehending. His eyes snagged on a line: _Your brother will rise again._ Dean had to read it several times before backing up a line for context. _'Lord,' Martha said to Jesus, 'if you had been here, my brother would not have died.' _ Dean snorted quietly into the coming darkness and read on. _'But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.'_

The coincidence of it made Dean laugh in disbelief. The sound felt _wrong_ in the stiff silence, with his brother's body lying cold and still before him, and Dean quickly stifled it. What were the odds he would find this tale of a sister, mourning her dead brother, and begging the Son of God to raise him from the dead? On this day, of all days, when he would do anything –_ anything_ – to bring Sam back?

The twilight had darkened the room so that Dean had to get up to switch the light on, and his stiff legs, curled under the chair all day, protested as he stood up. He glanced at Sam, the light casting his skin in a greenish tone that made bile and sorrow rise up inside Dean in equal measure. He tore his gaze away and continued reading.

_Then Jesus said, 'Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?'_

Well, shit.

Dean took a steadying breath and closed his eyes, keeping his place in the Bible by closing it around one finger.

"God, if you're there," Dean said into the silence, his voice gravelly with disuse. "I, uh, don't really know how this whole prayer thing works, so . . . here goes." He coughed to clear his throat. "Hell, I'm not sure if I even believe, but . . . I'm trying. Help me." He paused, as though waiting for a response. Dean cracked an eye open and looked around. Everything was still.

He sighed. "You know, I've never been much of a pray-er, and between you and me, I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for Sammy. You've gotta bring him back, you've just got to. If you really exist, you'll bring him back."

No response.

"Please." Dean's voice cracked. "I'll do anything; please, just bring Sam back." The tears had come in earnest now. "Please."

It was a moment before he opened his eyes and the book again. Dean smoothed out the thin page and continued reading. _Then Jesus looked up and said, 'Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me.' _

It was over. Sam wasn't coming back. Dean could never have enough faith to please God. At least not enough to bring Sam back, which was all that mattered.

Dean kept reading, and one line seemed to stand out, bolder than all the others. His blood ran cold. _'You know nothing at all! You do not realize that it is better for you that one man die for the people than that the whole nation perish.'_

Unbidden, his dad's last words rang in his ears as Dean turned to look at Sam's body. _"Watch out for Sam. You've got to save him, Dean. And if you can't, you're gonna have to kill him. Promise me." _Dean had promised with his eyes and slightest nod of the head.

Anger flared up in Dean, and with a wordless roar he threw the book across the room, where it slapped against the wall and fell to the floor. Dean, breathing hard, swiped a hand over his face. He planted both hands on his knees to stop them from shaking.

Dean's mouth hardened. He clung to the anger he had, to edge out the sorrow that threatened to consume him. If God wouldn't help him save Sammy, then he'd go to someone who would. Dean grabbed his coat, steeled himself and headed to the crossroads.


	3. The Book of Mormon: Mosiah 3

_Author's Note: This is set immediately after 03x10, "Dream a Little Dream of Me." For story purposes I assumed that the boys and Bobby returned to South Dakota for a few weeks before heading down to Florida to check out the Mystery Spot in 03x11._

* * *

"_I don't want to go to Hell."  
_"_We'll find a way to save you."_

"I don't know what to tell you," Bobby said. "Every major religion and plenty of other world cultures have some version of hell, and they're all different. The only damn thing they can agree on is that no one in their right mind would ever want to go there."

"Great. That's just great," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can you tell me _anything_ to expect?"

"Pain," said Bobby softly. "And lots of it. Tortures like you wouldn't believe. You know I'm not religious, but right now would be about the time I'd start prayin'. To anyone who would listen."

_Right._ Dean had been praying for awhile already, not that he'd ever admit it, and a lot of good _that_ had done him. "So what you're saying is it's a friggin' crapshoot."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I haven't found anything concrete to stop your deal from going through yet, and it would take nothing short of a miracle to bust you out once you're there. I won't tell you not to worry, but . . ." Bobby trailed off on the other end of the line, and Dean heard him sigh deeply. "I'll keep looking."

"Yeah, well, Sam worries enough for the both of us," Dean said. "Thanks anyway, Bobby." Dean hung up the pay phone and headed back out to the car, where Sam was waiting, leaning against the passenger's side door.

"So? Did Bobby find anything?"

Dean grimaced, and Sam's face fell. He tried to put on a hopeful expression. "It's okay, Dean, we'll –"

"Would you stop, Sam?" Dean said. "Stop trying to sugarcoat it. I know what I got myself into. I know how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

Sam had the decency to look embarrassed, but Bobby's lack of news and Sam's pity had already served to irritate Dean and put him in a bad mood. "Just get in the damn car," he said, slamming the door shut and applying the gas a bit more aggressively than necessary.

They pulled into Singer Salvage well after dark, stiff and exhausted from their drive. As soon as Bobby opened the door, Dean made a beeline for the fridge.

"Hello to you too," Bobby said grouchily. "Didn't think you'd be back so soon."

Dean easily cracked open a beer with the ring he wore and took a long swallow. He shrugged. "No hot cases, except for Sam's hot breath on my neck to start researching this whole eternal damnation business."

Sam shot him a dirty look as he hauled their duffels upstairs to the bedroom they shared while at Bobby's. It was a nice feeling, having a kinda-sorta home to return to, however rarely they might stay. It sure beat the endless monotony of motel rooms.

When Sam returned to the living room, he found Dean and Bobby discussing their next move.

". . . who would know better?" Dean was saying. "I mean, they live there, right? There's got to be something we could offer them to get more information."

Bobby turned to Sam, his face reading plainly furious. "Can you tell your idjit brother here that we are not summoning a demon in my living room? He'll listen to you."

Sam wasn't so sure about that. "Dean -"

"Save it," Dean growled, finishing his beer and setting it down with a forceful clunk. "Am I the only one here that even cares that I'm going to hell?"

"How can you even say that -"

"Of course, boy, but a demon?"

"I know!" Dean said. "I know. Demons lie. They will say_ anything_ to screw with you. But eventually one of them would let some truth slip, right?"

Sam felt the breath leave him in a whoosh. "Eventually? Dean, how many demons were you planning on summoning?"

"As many as it takes," Dean said. "Come on. We interrogate them, then exorcise the evil sons of bitches. It's a win-win."

"You are _so far_ off the reservation -" Bobby started forward, but Sam stepped between them.

"Stop it, both of you," he said, looking between his brother and Bobby. "We'll sleep on it, okay? You're tired and stressed out. We can pick this back up in the morning."

They glared at each other in the dim light for a moment before Dean spoke.

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "You coming, Sam?"

Later, as they lay in the familiar dark of their room, Sam said, "Dean?" He knew his brother was still awake; a lifetime of sleeping in the same room had taught him the subtle way Dean's breathing would even out.

"Leave me alone, Sam," Dean said. He didn't sound angry though, just weary. That was almost worse.

"Look, I know you think there's no way out of this, but if there is, me and you and Bobby will find it. Together. We're family, Dean. All three of us."

Dean said nothing, but Sam knew he had gotten through to him as his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning was as tense as the night before. They ate microwave bacon and fried eggs without speaking. Dean almost found the pained look on Sam's face amusing as he glanced between the two of them, silently begging them to kiss and make up - or, you know, whatever.

Although the atmosphere of the house was still on edge by the time late morning rolled around, Bobby and Dean had put aside their differences for the time being and seated themselves on each side of Bobby's enormous desk. They pored through various religious and secular texts, while Sam sat at the dining room table on his beat-up laptop.

There came a knock at the door, and everyone froze.

"Sam?' Dean said, and he didn't have to say anything else. As one, they rose and proceeded to the foyer, Sam picking up the sawed off shotgun propped against the wall by the coat rack. He held it steady as Dean silently counted down before flinging open the door.

Two young men stood side by side at the door, dressed identically in black slacks, white shirts, and black ties. Both wore cheap, simply-colored backpacks. The one on the left had bright red hair and blue eyes, and the way he drew himself up commanded attention despite his youth. He was the one who spoke first.

"Excuse me sir, but do you have a moment . . ." the words died on his tongue when he saw the shotgun and both put their hands in the air at once, dropping a slim blue leatherbound book on the step.

"Don't shoot!" squeaked the other one. He had brown hair and hazel eyes set deep in a plain, long face, and neither his looks nor demeanor drew attention like the other one. The redhead seemed to have lost his ability to speak and was opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. Dean bent to pick up the book he had dropped.

"'The Book of Mormon,'" he read off the cover. "They're Mormons, Sam. Mostly harmless." He smacked the book into the redhead's chest, already about to close the door. "We're full up on religion, thanks, so you can just -" He froze, his eyes flicking up to Sam's. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Sam knew _exactly _what Dean was thinking, and he was starting to shake his head no when Dean grabbed both Mormons by their ties and dragged them into the house. One of them looked like he was about to cry.

"Dean?" Bobby called as he rounded the corner. "Who was at the doo- oh." He looked up. "Demons?"

"Demons?" chorused the Mormons together.

"Worse," said Sam, "Mormons."

Bobby groaned. "You're not going to scare them too much, I hope." He eyed the two evangelists. "I'll get you both a beer . . . or, you know, whatever you boys drink," Bobby said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam and Dean dragged the two into the living room, sitting them each in a spindly chair. "This is for your own good," Sam said in his most soothing voice as he tied them to their chairs around their chests and ankles.

Bobby came into the living room with two tall glasses of dark liquid, complete with lemon wedge and ice.

"Iced tea?" Dean said. "We're interrogating them, not having a damn tea party."

Bobby scowled. "Doesn't mean we can't be civil."

"Alright, first things first," Sam said, standing in front of the Mormons with his arms folded over his chest. "What are your names?"

As Sam had expected, the redhead spoke for them both. "I'm Brother McMahon, and this is Brother Rose. But, I suppose you can call us Timothy and Mason?" He said the last like he wasn't quite sure.

"Thank you, Timothy," Sam said. "I assure you, we mean you no harm. We'd actually like to speak with you about your beliefs, if that's alright."

Timothy and Mason looked at each other. "Sir, you didn't need to tie us up to do that," Mason said, bewildered.

"I'm afraid we did," Sam said. "My brother and I have made some powerful enemies," Dean snorted at the understatement, "and we have no idea what the people they send after us will look like. I'm sure you understand. Wolves in sheep's clothing and all that."

Dean gave them a thin smile. "We've got to 'test the spirits', so to speak."

The color started to creep back into Timothy and Mason's faces as they started to relax, though Mason's hand was still shaking as he raised his glass to take a sip. Bobby, Dean, and Sam collectively held their breath -

\- and released it. Mason did not start hissing or screaming or writhing in agony from the holy water Bobby had slipped into his tea. Timothy passed the same test moments later.

Dean cleared his throat. "Christo," he muttered. Other than a confused look, Timothy and Mason didn't react. But both gasped in horror when Sam produced a silver knife and advanced toward them. They strained against their ropes, convinced they were about to be flayed and disemboweled.

"Calm down," Sam said firmly. "This won't hurt much." He grasped Timothy's wrist and pricked the man's palm. Other than a bead of blood welling from the wound, nothing happened. Mason was similarly tested. Both were found to be nothing more than terrified human evangelists who had the misfortune to knock on the door of Singer Salvage.

"Dean, if you'd like to begin, I think Timothy and Mason have proven themselves," Sam said, backing away to allow his brother to take over.

Dean pulled up a folding chair, straddling it backwards. He spread his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. "Tell me about hell."

Whatever Timothy and Mason had been expecting, it was not that. "Excuse me?" Timothy said.

"Hell," Sam said over Dean's shoulder.

Dean furrowed his brow. "You guys . . . _do_ believe in hell, right?"

"Well, yes -"

"But you don't need to worry about hell," Timothy said, clearly relieved to have such an easy transition into his prepared spiel. "If you believe -"

Dean chuckled dryly, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "It's a bit late for that."

"It's never too late," Mason chipped in.

"Trust me, I already know where I'm going," Dean said, "I'd just like a bit of a preview before I check into my hotel, so to speak."

"No one can _know_ -" Timothy protested.

"I sold my soul to a demon."

Both were struck speechless for a moment. "Yes, I guess that would do it."

"So," Dean said briskly. "Now that we're all on the same page: hell. What am I in for?"

Timothy and Mason exchanged dire looks. Mason's adam's-apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His hazel eyes bored into Dean as he spoke: "'And if they be evil they are consigned to an awful view of their own guilt and abominations, which doth cause them to shrink from the presence of the Lord into a state of misery and endless torment, from whence they can no more return; therefore they have drunk damnation to their own souls,'" he finished, his tone hushed and fearful.

"Mosiah 3:25," supplied Timothy. "It describes the first of two concepts of 'hell' in LDS doctrine. Spirit prison. It is where all souls go who have not been baptized into the fullness of the gospel."

Sam frowned, piecing together what he knew. "So it levels the playing field, then. It's like purgatory for Catholics. Everyone gets a chance to repent."

Dean laughed. "Except for Mormons. They get an express ticket to heaven."

Timothy gave them a pained look. "It's not quite that simple, but yes. Everyone in spirit prison has a chance to repent and continue on to heaven."

"You said there were two hells," Bobby said. "What's the other one?"

There was no mistake, Mason's voice shook as he recited the next verse. "'And their torment is as a lake of fire and brimstone, whose flames are unquenchable, and whose smoke ascendeth up forever and ever.'"

"Mosiah 3:27," whispered Timothy, bowing his head.

"The _outer darkness._" Mason's voice was hoarse.

"Alright, so that's the bad one," Dean said. If his voice shook, only Sam noticed.

"Is there a way out?" Sam asked.

Timothy hesitated for only a moment. "No."

Dean jerked up from the chair and knocked it over with a swing of his arm. Mason and Timothy jumped.

"Dean -"

"Is this what you wanted, Sam?" he cried. "Confirmation that I'm damned? Marked for hell? Why don't you just tie a bow around my neck and leave me at a crossroads," Dean's voice broke, which only infuriated him further. He turned on his heel and stalked upstairs. Sam heaved a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Bobby stepped forward, brandishing the silver knife, and freed Timothy and Mason from their bonds. "Look, you'd best not say anything about this. To anyone," he cautioned. "As if folks don't already think you're crazy." Timothy and Mason nodded. They tripped on the rug as they left; they couldn't get out of there fast enough. Sam and Bobby looked at each other as the screen door banged shut.

"Do you wanna talk to him, or should I?" Bobby said.

Sam shrugged. "I'll do it. He'll be fine."

Bobby's eyebrow twitched. "You know what 'fine' stands for, don't you?"

"Freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional?" Sam snorted. "Sounds about right."

"You want my advice?" Bobby said, collecting the empty iced tea glasses the Mormons had left behind. "Give Dean some breathing room. He's gotta wrap his brain around the reality of where he's headed before he can talk to you about it."

Sam nodded. "Alright. But only a day or two. Otherwise he'll never talk about it."

* * *

Sam fell asleep on the couch that night with a book tented on his chest, his gangly limbs hanging over the edge of the cushions. He was startled awake early the next morning by Dean swatting him with a newspaper.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he said brightly, dropping onto the end of the couch to lace up his boots. Sam noticed his gear already packed by the door and gave his brother a puzzled look.

"What? Caught a case," Dean said, pointing to an article in the newspaper. "Broward County, Florida. Mystery spot."

"Oh, come _on_, Dean; everyone knows those places are straight-up hoaxes," Sam protested. He knew what this was about. This had Dean's avoidance issues and aversion to confronting his problems written all over it. Dean feigned an innocent look and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Worth checking out, though, right?" At Sam's look he rolled his eyes. "Alright, _fine_. If we find a better case on the way we'll take it. I just . . . I need to be on the road again, Sam, you know? I feel better about everything as long as we're moving."

Sam couldn't argue with that. "Okay," he said. "But if this ends up being a hoax, I'm going to give you a big fat '_I told you so._'"


End file.
